The View from Mount Joy

  “So who was the exclusive club? Kristi or the rest of your family?”

  “Beats me, but it made me feel bad. And again, I thought maybe I’d been wrong about her all along. Then, hearing her on the radio tonight…”

  “It did seem her eulogy had an agenda.”

  “That’s just it. She doesn’t wipe her butt without an agenda. And I wonder why I’m such a sap to keep trying to find the good in her when I think it shriveled up and died a long time ago.”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “But pretty true, don’t you think?”

  A man standing in front of a picture window scratched his belly before pulling down the shade as we walked past his house.

  “Yes,” I said after a moment.

  Up in my office, I had Conor ring the bell.

  “Good morning, shoppers,” I said into the microphone. “It’s time for another contest here at Haugland Foods.”

  The dozen or so shoppers stopped in the aisles; Swanny Swanson waved up at me, and Jan Olafson pointed to herself as if letting me know she was going to win.

  “Today’s prize, courtesy of Lenny’s Kitchen and Bath, is free, yes, free tile and installation for any bathroom in your house.”

  This was a rigged contest; Lenny had given me the gift certificate over a week ago, but I had waited to give it away until Belinda Long was in the store. She reminded me of my mother—a young widow, new in town—and I knew from Eileen that she had recently moved into a run-down house close to the airport. Eileen was our resident psychiatrist, learning all about people while ringing up their groceries, and had told me the young woman was originally from Toronto. This was information I used this for the contest.

  “Anyone interested in this incredible value, meet me in Banana Square.

  “Come on, Conor,” I said, taking my five-year-old’s hand. “We’re going to go make someone’s day.”

  I was a little frazzled to see that the group that awaited me at Banana Square did not include the young widow.

  “Nice tie, Swanny,” I said, stalling for time.

  “It’s the wife’s idea,” said Swanny. “Now I’m retired, she says I gotta make an extra effort with my appearance or I’ll wind up in my bathrobe all day. Heck, I didn’t wear a tie when I worked at the Ford plant!”

  I saw Belinda shyly edging her cart toward the action.

  “Say, young man,” said Estelle Brady to Conor, “why aren’t you in school?”

  “I go to afternoon kinneygarten.”

  “Kinneygarten,” said Estelle, looking to her left and right. “Isn’t that cute?”

  “I think we’re ready for the contest,” I said. “For the free bathroom tile and installation, who can tell me what province Toronto is in and which provinces are to the east and west of it?”

  Swanny opened his mouth but closed it again, and Jan Olafson looked up as if trying to visualize a map.

  “If you know it, just shout it out,” I said, looking directly at the young widow.

  “Toronto’s in the province of Ontario,” she said, leaning over the cart handle. “Manitoba’s to the west and Quebec is to the east.”

  “We have a winner!” I said. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t exactly sure where each Canadian province was, but she was a Canadian and I was willing to take her word for it.

  “Boy, can I use this,” she said, accepting the gift certificate.

  “Well, that’s great,” I said. “Bring us a picture when it’s all done and we’ll put it on the bulletin board.”

  “Okay,” she said shyly, “I will. Thank you very much, Mr….”

  “Everyone calls me Joe.”

  “Thanks, Joe. Is this an American thing, these contests in grocery stores?”

  “Well, it’s our thing here at Haugland Foods, and we’re American.”

  “Wait’ll I tell my mother,” said Belinda. “She thinks everyone carries a gun and can’t wait to shoot one another. Wait’ll I tell her I won a bathroom remodel in a grocery store!”

  Up in my office, I showed Conor an A, G, and D chord. His brother Ben played both piano and guitar and Conor, whose competitiveness would either serve him well or do him in, had demanded that I start giving him lessons “because I wanna be the best guitar player in the whole wide world!”

  I had kept a guitar in my office all these years and had gone over these same chords with Ben here and at home and now it thrilled me to think that the tradition of jam sessions up in this grocery store office might continue with my sons.

  Still concentrating on watching my fingers roam the fret board, Conor said, “That lady who won the contest—why does her mommy think she’ll be shot?”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering how to answer yet another question I didn’t really have an answer for. “Sometimes mommies worry about their children.”

  “If I were a cowboy, I might get shot. ’Cause cowboys have guns.”

  “Some do,” I said. “Some just have lassos.”

  “I know what a lasso is,” said Conor. “Ben drawed me one. It’s a rope in a circle that you catch bears with.”

  I smiled, and played some twangy chords. “Well, cowboys usually catch cows with them. And bulls and horses.”

  “Yeah. And giraffes and monkeys.”

  “But the guys that catch those aren’t called cowboys. They’re called giraffeboys and monkeyboys.”

  Conor laughed. “And bullboys and horseboys.”

  “Hey, you know what, pardner?” I said, looking at my watch. “It’s time we mosey on off to school.”

  “Oh,” said Conor, disappointed.

  “Come on,” I said, putting my guitar back into its case. “Maybe you can play Bullboys and Monkeyboys at recess.”

  “Yeah! Let’s hurry up, Dad!”

  After I dropped Conor off at school, I walked across the playing field toward my car, trying to remember if I was supposed to do the shopping for tonight’s dinner with Jenny’s parents, or if she had wanted to. I decided to call her when my cell phone vibrated.

  It was Kristi.

  “Hey, Joe.”

  For the past couple years, since her mother died, she called me every few months. They were harmless enough conversations, never long or meaty; it seemed she just wanted to check in. Kirk got the same kind of phone calls; he said they never talked long enough to get into an argument, which seemed to suit both of them.

  “It’s not a real deep relationship,” he told me once, “but at least it’s a relationship…sort of.”

  Now Kristi was asking me what I was up to.

  “Oh, I just brought Conor to school,” I said. “Now I’m wondering if it’s me or Jenny who’s supposed to do the shopping for tonight’s dinner.”

  “Well, you being the supermarket mogul,” said Kristi, “I imagine it’d be you.”

  “So how’re things in the soul-saving business?”

  “The soul saving’s going very well, thank you. Four billion at last count. But I’m calling you to share some personal news.” Her laugh, for a change, was one of delight. “Joe, I want you to be one of the first to know. Tuck Drake—”

  “Tuck Drake the nutty senator?”

  Her laugh hardened. “Tuck Drake the highly regarded and esteemed senator has asked me to marry him.”

  I stepped into the street and a school bus honked its horn.

  “So…what did you say?”

  “Well, I said yes, of course. I’ve been waiting for a man like Tuck Drake all my life. Well, listen, Joe, I’ve got a million things to do. I just wanted to give you a heads-up so you could start shopping for the perfect gift.”

  “Kristi, I…don’t know what to say.”

  “How about congratulations?”

  “All right—congratulations.”

  Her laugh was back to its delight mode. “I really hit the jackpot with this one, Joe. Gotta run—and remember, diamonds are always an appropriate gift!”

  “So are toasters,” I replied, but she’d already hung up the phone.
>
  Twenty-five

  Tuck Drake was a big slab of a man, six feet five inches tall and as brawny as a blue-ribbon steer. He had played football for Clemson and was an all-American in 1973, but when he blew out a knee in a bowl game, he had to hang up his cleats for good.

  “Ya gotta understand,” he was quoted during his first Senate campaign, “football was my life. And when that life caved in, I pretty much let everything else. Yup, I drank, I caroused, I did everything my sweet mama told me not to, until after a night of partyin’, when I was perched over the porcelain throne, throwing up all that was in me and a little bit more, I suddenly realized how far I’d strayed—the proud athlete God had made me was now just a vessel for alcohol and other poisons, a sinner who’d let his body and his mind be taken over by the Devil’s temptations. That’s when I rose up, rinsed my mouth out, and after I spit into the sink, I looked in the mirror and I said, ‘Tuck Drake might not be a football all-star, but he can be an all-star on God’s team.’ Let me tell you, it’s the best team I’ve ever been on, with the best coaching, and the thing is—everybody wins.”

  Tuck Drake had a big sheaf of blond hair and matching blond sideburns and was something of a folk hero in his home state. He also scared Beth and Linda half to death.

  “I can’t believe that even Kristi Casey could have married a guy like that,” said Beth, who had seen the couple on a morning talk show, sharing pictures of their three-year anniversary party in the Caribbean. “I mean, she’s weird, but not on the level of Tuck Drake.”

  My mother and aunt had entered their seventies (or “the age of advanced wisdom and subtle sexiness,” as Beth preferred to call it) and they were both out on Lake Nokomis with me, skating the perimeter of the plowed-off rink, while Ben and Conor battled it out in a pickup game on the hockey rink.

  The sun had given up its halfhearted battle to assert itself in the winter sky, skittering away behind a low bank of gray clouds. Occasionally we’d be drawn to watch what was happening on the hockey rink—Ben was a good player, but Conor was excellent, albeit hotheaded—a common enough pairing in the game of hockey.

  “Don’t you want to join them?” asked my mother, who skated linked to Beth at the elbow.

  “No,” I said, skating backward in front of them so I could talk, “I’d rather skate with my two favorite old ladies.”

  My mother let go of Beth’s arm and sped forward as if to grab me, but I easily dodged her.

  “Now don’t overtax yourself,” I said, and maneuvering myself between them, I took both their arms.

  “Linda says he not only thinks homosexuality is a sin, but he thinks we might want to consider the legality of it.” My aunt shivered, and I didn’t think it was because of the cold. “I mean, the guy is a real nutcase.”

  “Don’t you think some of it’s just for show?” asked my mother. “He doesn’t really think he can legislate something like that, does he?”

  “He’d like to,” said Beth. “He says gay people are abominations of nature and their unions are a threat to heterosexual marriages.” Beth looked at me. “Do you think Linda and I are abominations of nature?”

  “No, but I do think your ‘union’ is a threat to my marriage,” I joked.

  My mother laughed.

  “I wish I could laugh,” said Beth. “But I’m scared as hell.”

  “All I can say is I’m glad Kristi and the senator won’t procreate,” I said. “At least I don’t think they will. Kristi’s too old now, isn’t she?”

  “If she hasn’t hit menopause, she’s not,” said Beth. “I read about a woman who was sixty-something and had a baby.”

  “As the kids say now, ewwww!” I broke away from them and then turned, facing them as I skated backward.

  “Either of you old bags interested in a race?”

  My mother and aunt exchanged looks before charging forward. They couldn’t catch me, but a patch of bad ice could, and one of my blades got caught in it and I toppled over backward.

  Not bothering to enquire if I was all right, they skated past me and to the boards surrounding the hockey rink, giving the race to the old bags.

  That night I was nestled against the curves of Jenny’s back when the phone rang. There is nothing as unsettling as being awakened by a phone jangling in the middle of the night, especially when one of your children is not at home.

  “What time is it?” whispered Jenny, fear in her voice.

  I looked at the numbers on the digital clock. “Two thirty-five,” I said, and even though I only had to reach over to the nightstand to pick up the phone, my heart was beating as if I had sprinted around the block to answer it.

  “Hello?” I asked, and my muscles were suddenly limp with relief when I heard Kristi’s voice say, “Joe?”

  The relief—Flora was fine!—was quickly replaced by an irritation just a step below anger.

  “Kristi, why are you calling at this time of night?”

  Her voice was small, wounded. “Joe, do you think Jenny ever cheated on you?”

  “Well, let me ask her, she’s right here.”

  Jenny had raised herself onto her elbows, whispering at me to tell her what was going on.

  “Jenny, Kristi wants to know if you’ve ever cheated on me.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said Jenny, rolling over.

  “She said, ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’” I reported. “So I’m taking that as a no. And now I’m going to hang up and wait for your call at some civil hour.”

  “Please, Joe,” she said, an uncharacteristic vulnerability coating her voice. “I don’t have anyone else I can talk to.”

  “Christ,” I muttered, getting out of bed. Jenny groaned, as if she couldn’t believe I was taking the call.

  “Hold on a sec,” I said into the cordless phone. “I’ve got to leave the room so I don’t disturb my wife, whom you also woke up when you called.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” said Kristi, and for a change, it sounded as if she were. Yanking my robe off the door hook, I padded out into the hallway.

  Flora’s room was closest, so I went inside and sank down on a furry beanbag chair.

  “All right,” I said, making sure she heard the sigh in my voice. “What’s going on, Kristi?”

  “I think Tuck’s having an affair.”

  “Well, isn’t that par for the course?” I said with a laugh.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come on, Kristi,” I said, and her name bobbed along on a short wave of laughter. “It’s always the guys who yell the loudest about other people’s bad behavior who are usually in the middle of the bad behavior themselves.”

  “Why, you don’t know a thing about—”

  “But I really don’t understand why you’re so upset. You’ve never seemed to mind affairs, although you’re usually on the cheating end rather than—”

  The phone clicked off. I sat there in the dark for a moment before the phone rang again.

  “I didn’t call you for a lecture,” said Kristi, her voice clogged with tears. “I called you because I needed a friend!”

  “Sorry,” I said, although I doubted my apology would nudge the needle on any sincerity meter.

  “And if you’re referring to Johnny Priestly, it’s not like I broke up their marriage—FYI, they’re still married. I just felt sorry for him, because his wife hadn’t slept with him in two years and—”

  “Okay, okay, Kristi. I don’t need to hear all the sordid details. I’m sorry I lectured you. I guess I don’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.”

  “We’ve already established that.”

  I sighed again, the chair scrunching as I repositioned myself.

  “Okay, I’ll just sit here—on a beanbag chair, no less—and listen to you as you tell me what’s happening.”

  There was a long pause, as if Kristi was waiting for further complaints from me. Then she began to speak.

  “Well, Tuck picked me up after the radio show tonight—
you should see my D.C. studio, Joe, it’s state-of-the-art. Anyway, I thought we were going to go out for dinner, but Tuck said he was beat and would I mind awfully if we went straight home? He did look tired—they’ve been going into special sessions trying to get this Families Foremost bill passed—and I wasn’t about to make him sit through a fancy five-course dinner with a congressman who’s not that important anyway. So we go home, he climbs into bed, and about twenty minutes later, the phone rings and a voice on the other line says, ‘You might be interested to know that Senator Tuck Drake is having an affair with a Senate page.’” She paused—for dramatic effect, I assumed. “So you see, Joe, you’re not the only one to get a call in the middle of the night.”

  “Not to be a stickler,” I said, “but it doesn’t sound like your call came at two-thirty in the morning.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Kristi impatiently, “my news was a little more shocking.”

  I tried to laugh at the inanity of our argument, but I was too tired.

  “Did you tell Tuck?”

  “No! He’s a bear if you wake him up out of a deep sleep.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Should I?”

  “I don’t know, Kristi. I mean, how do you even know if it was real or not? Maybe it was just a prank.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Kristi, hope flooding into her voice. “Oh, Joe, I never even thought of that—I do get nuts calling the show and stuff, but not at home. I mean, this is a private number—”

  “Kristi, you know there’s no such thing as a private number. Really, I’m surprised at how quick you are to believe what some prankster tells you over the telephone.”

  Her laugh was weak but hopeful. “Do you really think it might have been a prankster? Because I couldn’t stand it if I thought Tuck was cheating on me, Joe. I have poured everything into this relationship; God knows he doesn’t need to go anywhere for sex, because he’s getting all he wants here.”

  “Please, Kristi, spare me.”

  “It’s just that…well, there’s been some gossip.”

  “There’s always gossip in Washington, Kristi. You know that.”